


Mightier Than The Sword

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode: s05e17 The Modern Prometheus, F/M, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After "The Modern Prometheus" Methos grieves for his former student and lover, and finds himself with a need for revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mightier Than The Sword

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published in "Walking Distance." However, the version you are about to read is different from the one that appeared in that fanzine. I wasn't entirely happy with that ending, instead wanting something more along these lines. Actually, this is the last version before it went to the editors, with one vast difference: the ending. 
> 
> Originally posted in 1997 under my other pseud, Lady Rowena.

"Byron, why wouldn't you listen to me?" Methos muttered to himself, his head lowered as he passed through the doors of the auditorium. He sensed the tingling of Quickening in the air, and felt tears burn his eyes. There can be only One, and he was sure it had been Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Byron was good, but no match for the Highlander.

Not wanting to see MacLeod just yet, Methos started walking. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, waving off the advances of the prostitutes. No, he wouldn't find comfort in their arms tonight. Tonight . . . he wanted to lose himself, to forget for a few hours that he was Methos, world's oldest Immortal. Tonight . . . he wanted to be just a guy. As that thought registered completely, he looked up at where his steps had taken him, and chuckled humorlessly. Maurice's club. The soft, strained sounds of a solitary guitar filtered out of the doors, and Methos felt a smile tug the corners of his mouth. If he felt like being just a guy, undoubtedly, the one man who could help him do that was inside.

Letting out a breath, he walked up the steps and stole quietly into the club. The room was empty except for the solitary figure of Joe Dawson hunched over his guitar, eyes closed as he lost himself in his music. Not wanting to disturb Joe, Methos stood just inside the doorway, letting the smoky sound caress his soul. Joe's pain came through every note, and Methos shivered. Had Byron caused that pain? Or had he, himself, caused it? It was his friend who had given Mike the drugs. MacLeod had blamed Byron for Mike's death. What if Joe blamed Byron as well? Suddenly, he wasn't sure of the reception he would get from the mortal. Moving quietly, Methos walked down the stairs to the bar, leaning as unobtrusively as he could against it.

The smooth flow of the guitar was broken by a sour note, and Methos heard Joe sigh. "Surprised to see you here."

Methos couldn't keep his shoulders from tensing. "I'll go then." He was heading for the door when Joe's soft voice stopped him cold.

"Does he know how much he's hurt you?"

Methos slowly turned his head to see the resigned expression of his friend. Joe's face was a study in hard life: the lines seemed deeper; his eyes darker with pain. Recalling their long, intense talk after Methos' encounter with the Horsemen in Bordeaux, Methos knew Joe could only be talking about one person: MacLeod. In that dark, confusing time, Joe had helped him see past his immediate hurt that MacLeod had judged him so harshly. Now, Joe was offering that same comfort, letting Methos be himself and not judging him. "Am I that transparent?" he queried softly, emotion roughening his voice.

"Only to me," Joe remarked quietly as he plucked a stray chord. He stared down at the instrument in his hands for a long minute, then raised his head and nodded to the bar. "Have a drink. On me."

Methos nodded slowly, his heart lifting a bit at Joe's acceptance of his presence. Joe began playing again as Methos slipped out of his coat and dropped it onto a barstool. His hands started to reach for the tap, but didn't quite make it. Instead, his arms folded upon themselves, and the next thing Methos knew, his head was resting on his arms, Joe's soulful music calling to an unnamed place inside of him.

Methos stayed like that for a long time, then he raised his head and snatched a bottle and a glass, not caring what it was. He moved automatically to the table he, Dawson and MacLeod had shared earlier, placing both the bottle and glass within easy reach. Methos pushed up his sleeves and sat down, then reached to pour himself a drink.

The Buzz cut through him, deeper than it usually did. Methos slid his hard gaze to the doorway, his eyes connecting with MacLeod's as the younger Immortal pushed open the curtains.

Hurt. It was what echoed in his own chest. But what was MacLeod's hurt for? The world's loss of a great poet? Methos' own loss of a friend? Or was it something even more personal to MacLeod? Unsure if he really wanted to ask, Methos poured himself a generous drink, settled back in the booth and took a sip. The silence dragged on, with Joe's music the only sound from the three men.

Methos didn't glance up as MacLeod tossed his coat onto the chair across from him. He listened to MacLeod retrieve his own glass and return to the table, but still didn't look up. He debated briefly whether to say something or not when the Highlander sat in the chair beside him, but what good would it do? The deed was done; nothing would bring Byron back. As MacLeod poured himself a drink, Methos could feel the hesitancy emanating from the Scotsman. He felt an answering hesitancy inside himself, and another sense of loss filled him. The uneasy acceptance they had formed after Bordeaux was gone. He hadn't kidded himself that it would last; there were too many things in his past that MacLeod would never understand. Survival always came first to Methos, no matter the cost. And at this stage in his life, the Highlander couldn't - or wouldn't - see that. And so now they sat beside each other, trying very hard to ignore the other, yet needing each other's company.

Or so he thought. MacLeod was brooding, an emotion that he was quite familiar with, but there was more. Methos shifted uneasily in his seat as MacLeod's darkness pushed at him. Maybe part of Byron's dark soul had touched MacLeod. Whatever it was, it was stifling. Tension grew between them and Methos shifted again. Unwilling -- and unable -- to deal with both his and the Highlander's emotions, he broke the silence.

"Matter and antimatter. Byron knew that too." Hell; Byron, he wasn't. Methos stared into the depths of his glass, lost in memories nearly two hundred years old. What happened to the man he had been back then? What had happened to the carefree Doc Adams? When he had dazzled the ladies with his charm and bedded them with lazy grace? When a casual flirtation between men could lead to a night of ecstasy? Caring not a wit about the mores of the day, living life to the fullest? What had changed in the years since he had been Benjamin Adams?

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything. Maybe just too much of living life to the fullest. Methos twirled the glass in his hand and studied the light reflected in it, refusing to look up at MacLeod. It hurt to see Duncan's face; he imagined he could see Byron's spirit inside of the Highlander.

"His life had become one long tragedy," he said more to himself, unable to stop the feeling that he had failed somehow. Methos lifted his glass in a toast to Lord Byron, then sipped the smooth liquid. He had a hard time swallowing as Duncan's next words cut through him like sword.

"And we all know how those turn out."

The glass Methos was about to set down halted, hovering an inch above the table. He stared disbelieving at the tabletop, attempting to block out the insensitive remark. Didn't the man realize who he was talking to? MacLeod had Byron's Quickening; couldn't he  _sense_ what Byron had meant to him? Yes, Methos logically knew that Byron would eventually succumb to his darker tendencies, and either kill himself or let himself be killed. But to have Byron's killer  _remind_ him of it...he turned his back completely to MacLeod.

"Mac!" Joe chided from across the room, his voice horror-filled. A protesting jangle sprang from the guitar as the musician set it aside.

The sounds barely registered, but the tone of Joe's voice managed to penetrate Methos' dark thoughts. Methos turned, facing MacLeod, but looked past him. "Thanks for the update," he snarled quietly, then quickly finished his drink. He slammed the empty glass onto the table, stood, and with precise movements, put on his coat. As he adjusted the collar, he locked gazes with the Watcher. Methos' expression softened as he saw the pain there. "Joe, I'll see you around." His gaze drifted to MacLeod, who was staring deep into his drink, refusing to look up. Damn child. "I'm outta here," Methos whispered, disgust hardening his words.

Methos shoved open the doors to the club, his clipped steps taking him quickly through the streets of Paris. The night was damp; very few people were on the streets at this late hour. Methos shrugged his coat around himself tighter, feeling a chill through to his bones. He stumbled, suddenly unable to see the sidewalk before him. His vision was blurred from the tears falling unheeded down his face. Making his way across the street, he collapsed onto a park bench and lowered his head into his hands.  
His shoulders shook as he surrendered himself to the pain and loss he felt. Byron, his friend; Byron, his student; Byron, his lover. Each one unique, yet all shared the same quick-burning passion. He cried for the loss of a great poet... the pain of losing one of his students ... the ache of losing yet another lover ... the damn Game they were all caught up in, that kept taking away his precious few friends ... and lastly, for his shattered friendship with MacLeod.

After several minutes, his sobs quieted to nothing and his breathing evened out. The emotional release felt good, though it did little to ease the ache in his soul. Byron had been a brief spark in his long life, but that spark had been an intense experience. Lord George Gordon Noel Byron did nothing by half-measures. He was a man full of passion, full of life, and he shared that passion with those around him. Methos had let himself get swept up in Byron's passion -- for life, and for the man himself.

**Switzerland, 1816**

Methos rose from his deep mock-bow to find Byron studying him intently. The gaze was unsettling, yet Methos felt drawn to it nonetheless. The same feeling he had every time he laid eyes on the poet; a strange mix of longing and fear, of nervousness and desire. They had never gone beyond mild foreplay; hasty, stolen kisses and rough, urgent fondling behind closed doors was all they dared. That was at Methos' insistence. He didn't trust letting the other Immortal close to him; he had learned his lesson of sleeping with other Immortals long ago. But, he had watched Byron with other men, and with the women he paraded through his house, and wanted him despite his hesitations.

Byron's cheeks were flushed as he regarded the older Immortal. "And as I have done a favor for you, now I ask a favor in return."

Nodding once, Methos acknowledged his friend. "Very well. You may ask." He grinned, enjoying the word games they occasionally played. "Though I cannot promise that I will grant it."

Byron smirked, though the joviality of his nature had fled. He stepped up to Methos, once again caressing Methos' cheek. "I think I can say with the utmost confidence that you will not deny me what I desire."

Methos' hands fell to his sides as Byron closed the space between them, dropping his mouth to Methos'. The scent of laudanum was still on his breath, and Methos drank of it greedily. Byron's own taste was addictive; Methos felt himself grow heady and grasped Byron's arms, holding him at bay. "A moment, please," he breathed. Byron's insistence was strong, his presence overwhelming. Methos had a decision to make; either accept Byron's proposal here, now; or leave, and never again taste the exotic flavor that was the poet.

Byron's hand slid down Methos' chest, teasing erotically at his exposed skin. "A moment, but not too long, sir. My desire for you grows," he teased, catching Methos' gaze and holding it.

His body made the decision for him. Methos could no longer leave this man, for the ache within him was strong, far stronger than his resistance. Byron's fingers danced along his skin, each touch heightening his awareness, drawing him deeper into the seduction. His will was no longer his own, and he gave himself over completely to the feeling. A soft moan escaped Methos' parted lips as he grasped Byron's hand, drawing him into the other room. Between light kisses, Methos murmured, "I see how your desire grows. Let us find a way to encourage it."

"It needs no more encouragement! It needs abatement, dear doctor," Byron declared softly, leaning in to kiss Methos more soundly.

Methos pulled back, allowing a teasing smile to grace his lips. He circled Byron, catching Byron's gaze darting to the other room, and Mary lying on the bed. Jealousy flared briefly within him, and he slid out of Byron's reach to close the door. Methos turned and leaned back against the door, a knowing grin lifting one corner of his mouth. "Come, dear Byron, let us see what it takes to abate your desire." Methos pushed away from the door, his eyes twinkling merrily as he glided to a stop in front of the other man.

Byron studied Methos' face, seemingly enraptured by his eyes. His hand once again cupped the side of Methos' face, drawing him closer.

"Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,  
\----With bright, but mild affection shine:  
Though they might kindle less desire,  
\----Love, more than mortal, would be thine."

As he breathed the last word, Byron crushed his lips to Methos', hard and demanding. There was no more teasing; Byron dug his fingers into Methos' scalp, forcing his head still as he plundered the recesses of Methos' mouth.

Methos felt Byron's sex pushing against his leg, rubbing sensually against his own. The power of Byron's words were almost as seductive as the man himself, and Methos felt surrounded by both. Oh, how he had longed for this! The release of inhibitions, the racing of his blood, the craving of intimacy. It sent both a chill of fear and a white-hot jolt of desire down his spine, and he reveled at the opposing forces inside of him. Desiring, and fearing that desire, warred within him. His breath was ragged when Byron finally released him.

Byron stepped back, holding out his hand to Methos. "Come, Benjamin. Let us indulge in the sins of the flesh, and let our souls be damned."

Methos stretched out his arm, his trembling fingers curling around Byron's offered hand as he allowed himself to be led to the four-poster bed.

Byron bowed slightly, indicating he should lie back on the bed. Methos did so, propping his head up on his palm. He watched with bright eyes as Byron draped his body next to him and began toying with the lace at Methos' throat. His own hand reached out to stroke at Byron's neck.

"You desire Mary Shelley, do you not?"

The abrupt question startled him, and he pulled back slightly, wondering what game Byron was playing. "Why should that matter?" he asked warily.

Byron's lip curled in a tiny smile. "Curiosity, I suppose. Will you think of her while we do this?" His hand traced down Methos' chest, resting on the bulge in his pants. "Or will it be me in your thoughts?"

His breath quickened at Byron's touch. "It will be you," he rasped, his neck arching back as Byron's hand stroked his sex through the cloth.

"Are you sure?"

His head came up, and he leveled his gaze on Byron's. Reaching down, he took Byron's hand in his own and brought it to his lips. He sucked gently at each digit, paying particular attention to the thumb. Byron's eyes were closed in rapture as Methos placed one last kiss on the palm, then replied, "I know who my lovers are."

He watched in fascination as Byron's eyes opened slowly, a predatory light shining from them. Flashing a quick grin, Byron rolled over him and hungrily recaptured his mouth. He drown himself in the heat of Byron's kiss, and pulled him closer to deepen it. The poets body covered his, yet he felt Byron's hands on his chest, his waist, his groin ... seemingly everywhere at once. It was as if Byron could not touch him enough, nor feel him enough. That feeling of being surrounded by the man returned, and with it, the fear: the fear of losing control with another Immortal. He didn't trust easily, and even less so with other Immortals. That vulnerability was too seductive; not just for his lovers, but for himself as well. But this time, he was unable to stop himself, and surrendered to it. And it was a surrender: of mind, body and soul. His back arched as Byron's hands worked at his shirt and then his pants. In return, he expertly found every fastening on Byron's clothing and released the poet's body to his desire-filled gaze.

Clothes now removed, Byron was once again on top of him, staring down at him with wonder. He could feel their hearts pounding in anticipation and reached for the poet, but a quick shake of Byron's head stopped his movement. Curiously, he watched as Byron's hand hovered over his heart, not quite daring to touch his skin.

"When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,  
\----So much perfection in thee shone,  
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,  
\----The skies might claim thee for their own."

Dear gods and goddesses above, the images this man could weave! Methos would have melted from the mere whispered words alone, had Byron's hand not touched his chest just then. The searing heat from Byron's body filled him and he gasped.

"Yes," he hissed as he drew Byron down for another passionate kiss. His entire body was aflame with desire; desire he had not felt in decades. Byron's words drove his urgency higher, and his hips thrust hard against Byron's, the intimate caress causing them both to shudder. His need to touch this Immortal overwhelmed him. His hands stroking the curly locks, the slim back, anywhere and everywhere he could reach. The smooth skin was hot under his touch, burning with the passion of the man.

He rolled them over, grinning triumphantly down at the startled Byron. Surprised him, had he? Well, he may have surrendered his body and mind, but he  _did_ have experience on his side. "Dear sir, since I am the elder of us, I thought I would get privilege of being on top."

He shivered as fingertips stroked down his back. Byron was grinning up at him, and he could see the playfulness in the poet's eyes. "Kind sir, pray tell; how much older are you?"

His passion cooled somewhat, replaced by wary instinct. It was a question he had always feared, and rarely answered truthfully. He could see the newness of Immortality still glowing in Byron's eyes, the wonder and freshness, and the pain of it speared his heart. His face hardened as he grew serious. "Old enough to know your genius is worth its weight in gold. Do not let your passion die, Byron. It fades over time, and is so hard to regain." His hands roamed over Byron's face and neck, his fingers dancing over the flushed skin. He lowered his head to place an urgent kiss to Byron's parted lips, one that sent a flush down his own pale skin. He began to move his hips, thrusting gently against Byron, their sexes sliding against each other in an erotic dance.

Byron's hands cupped his buttocks, trying to hold him steady as he thrust upward. Methos shuddered with the intensity, but continued to kiss Byron anywhere he could reach; his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, but always returning to his hot mouth. He wanted to steal the very breath of this man; this mouth that lent itself to such beautiful, erotic poetry. The poetry that had finally broken down Methos' last resistance, and brought him into Byron's bed. He held onto Byron's mouth for as long as he could, but when the poet protested, he pulled back. His wandering mouth latched onto Byron's neck and sucked gently at the heated skin. He rocked his hips in a slow, steady rhythm, bringing their sexes into direct contact.

His soft moan was drown out by Byron's more vocal appreciation, and he couldn't help but laugh. "You sir, are loud," he mocked, barely able to grin through his passion.

Byron licked his lips, distracting Methos with his tongue's movements while two fingers slid between his cheeks. His movements faltered, but he continued to rock gently against Byron, the added stimulation only driving his lust higher.

"Let me inside you, and we shall see how loud  _you_ get, dear sir. I myself shall take your passion to heaven."

Byron's whispered words cut through Methos, straight to his very soul. They tempted him, but they also brought up his ancient fear of releasing his control to another Immortal. Hating himself even while he did it, he shook his head. "Not this time. My passion rages too hot..." he broke off, gasping as Byron's fingers stroked deep inside him.

"Passion cannot rage too hot, Doc. Feel it," Byron coaxed.

He felt Byron's lips kissing along his taut neck muscles and moaned at the double assault. He shook his head slowly, though the deafening thud of his heart filled his head. It was all too much, and he knew he was close to losing his tenuous control. Byron had broken down the last barrier, and Methos could feel himself falling...losing himself in the other man.

"No, please," he rasped as sweat dripped off his nose onto Byron's chest. His body disobeyed every one of his internal commands, and he choked back a sob. He didn't think his soul could stand the torment that Byron promised, but he was beyond rational thought. His body  _demanded_ Byron's, and he was at its mercy. Arching his neck, he thrust back onto Byron's fingers, driving him deeper. "Please," he groaned, unable to stop himself.

Byron's body undulated against his, and he was torn between shoving down with all his strength, or pushing upwards onto Byron's hand. Once again, the decision was taken from him as the poet's fingers slipped out of him. "No," he panted on a whisper. He wrapped his arms around Byron tightly, unwilling to let him go.

He felt gentle hands pushing him away, and he fought down a wave of panic. Not now! Not after he had finally given in to his passion; Byron couldn't turn him away now! "No," he cried softly as he buried his face in Byron's neck.

Byron's hands stroked his back soothingly, whispered words ghosting by his ear. "Benjamin, would I deny you?"

He allowed the poet to roll him over until he felt his back against Byron's chest. Through his own nearly-blinding lust, he saw Byron dip his hand into the oil by the bedside, and choked back a sob.

"I didn't think you...would," he gasped out as Byron's fingers returned to his cleft. He arched back onto the fingers impaling him; first two, then three. His hands clenched in the sheets as his hips thrust again and again, but it wasn't enough. He needed to feel all of Byron. "Deny me no more," he pleaded.

His body was trembling as he felt the tip of Byron's erection push into him. With agonizing slowness, Byron filled him with sweet agony. He gasped and forced himself still, enjoying the _feel_ of Byron. After weeks of temptation, of watching Byron take other lovers, he wanted to savor every nuance, every feeling...everything. He wanted this moment to last, but Byron had other ideas. The poet stroked deep inside him, shattering what was left of his control.

He thrust mindlessly back against Byron, his entire focus on drawing the poet inside him deeper; making Byron a true part of himself. He realized, too late, that it was he who was being made a part of Byron. Byron was surrounding him, guiding his passion. Byron's hand was sure on his sex, stroking in counterpoint to his body's thrusts. An articulate cry caught in his throat, and his hand covered Byron's, and together, they brought him to climax.

His relentless need had driven them both to the edge and over it, their cries mingling in the stillness of the night. Methos came back to awareness with Byron's arms wrapped securely around his sweat-slick body. He still twitched with the after-effects of his orgasm, and his entire body felt satiated. He closed his eyes as Byron's soft voice in his ear continued his poem:

"Therefore, to guard her dearest work,  
\----Lest angels might dispute the prize,  
She bade a secret lightning lurk,  
\----Within those once celestial eyes."

He let Byron's words wash over him and felt them etch themselves onto his heart. He turned in Byron's embrace and smiled down at the poet fondly. "I told you I would rather have your poetry than your head," he remarked slyly as he raised his mouth for another intoxicating kiss.

~~~~~

Methos wiped again at his face, licking the salty tears from his mouth. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, but a misty fog had drifted in, and he felt damp. He ignored his discomfort as he realized he needed to do something important, before the Watchers did. Wrapping his trenchcoat protectively around himself, he found the nearest phone and placed a few calls to friends. Within the hour, he had Byron's body at a small morgue outside the city, no questions asked. In the morning, Lord Byron would be buried in an unmarked grave in a small cemetery.

He still had a few hours before dawn, so he headed back to his apartment and locked the door securely behind him. He stripped on his way to the bathroom, hoping a shower would help settle his nerves. The hot water eased some of the tension in his muscles, but did nothing to warm his body. Not even bothering to dry off, he fell to his bed where exhaustion finally claimed him.

He awoke near dawn, for a moment unsure where - and when, he was. The confusion faded as memories of the past few days surfaced. His head returned to the pillow and he groaned softly. Luckily he had the shades drawn; very little light filtered into the bedroom. He had no desire to greet the new day, though centuries of discipline forced him out of bed. Looking wearily around his apartment, he supposed he needed to dress. Finding some shorts and a t-shirt, he threw them on and shuffled around the kitchen, aimlessly searching the cabinets for something he could not identify. Finally giving up, he retreated to the living area empty-handed. Sprawling on the couch, he glanced to the ceiling, closing his eyes reverently. His thoughts again returned to his time spent with Byron and the Shelleys, though this time, he remembered the woman who knew of their secret. The woman whose nightmares became her legacy.

He smiled fondly as he recalled the night Byron has suggested the threesome with Mary. Well, one of many such suggestions, but this time, he had been sorely tempted, for Mary had lain between them on the bed, half-conscious. Her flesh was tempting, Byron's pleas equally so. But, he had restrained himself, for the last time...

**Switzerland, 1816**

"I dare say it's your greatest work." He smiled over at Mary Shelley, who lowered her eyes momentarily, but raised them to meet his gaze steadily.

"I have you to thank for that, Doctor Adams," Mary replied, awe shining from her gaze.

Methos watched her warily as she rose from her chair. She blithely ignored her husband and Byron cavorting on the floor with the other women as she passed them. His eyes narrowed as she knelt at his feet and took his hand in hers in a surprisingly strong grip.

His eyes locked on hers as she continued softly, "Your pain is what inspired me."

He felt himself grow hot all over at her touch and her words, but controlled his wilder urges. After seeing Byron's Quickening, Mary had stared after both him with a wide-eyed expression, halfway between fear and curiosity. Now, with her gaze so close to his own person, he felt exposed. He had wanted Mary ever since Percy had described her to Byron, though he wasn't certain of Percy's attachment to her. So far in their stay, Percy had not coaxed her into their games, but he did pay her special attention. Attention that Methos himself wanted to lavish on her.

"Why do you say I have pain, Mary?" he joked, trying to lighten her mood. But her mood was not to be lightened.

"I can see it in your eyes," Mary whispered as she leaned in and brushed his cheek with a kiss. He felt his heart ache at her simple touch. "They speak of ages past, of loss and denial. Why would you deny yourself?" she implored.

He pushed her hand gently off his, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Inside, he was shivering from her words. It was as if she could read his soul, and that gave him more fright than any tale she could weave. His soul did not need reading; nor did it need reawakening. Giving her his most charming smile, he tried to placate her. "I would deny myself nothing, Mary. What you are seeking is not there."

He winced as her expression changed abruptly. Her eyes darkened in anger, and she clenched her hands together. "I warned you once not to speak to me as if I were a child. I can  _see_ your pain and loss. You cannot hide it from me, Benjamin."

His emotions roiled inside of him, a twisting pain at her words. How true they were! He desperately wanted her love, but the price -- her price, was too high. He could not let her see into his soul; could not let her know what he truly had been. The Shelleys and Byron amazed -- no, frightened him, with their ability to read other people's state of mind. It was a part of human nature he had been studying for centuries, which these three seemed to understand and utilize almost as an afterthought. Methos was forcibly removed from his thoughts as he registered movement. His eyes focused on Mary's hand as she reached up and caressed the side of his face. Despite himself leaned into the touch, sighing softly.

"You are a tortured creature, aren't you?" she whispered as her fingers traced his jaw.

He immediately flung her hand off his face, disgust twisting his features. "I am not a creature," he growled. "I am as you are, only the length of our lives is different." If only she could love him. Instead, she found him a fascinating discovery. His disgust filtered through his voice as he added, "Do not pity me."

"I do not," she cried softly, again reaching out and taking his hand. "I do not pity you, nor do I envy you. I wish to understand you. Tell me, Benjamin, what is it that you desire most?"

His eyes flicked involuntarily to Byron, who was enjoying the delights of two women on the floor, and a flush rose to his cheeks. His gaze returned to Mary's, burning with passion, not just for Byron, but for the woman before him. He swallowed hard, quickly working through stories to tell her. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, Mary leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Passion immediately flared from her gentle touch, igniting his heretofore unspoken desires. He groaned softly, his body settled bonelessly into the plush chair. Mary's hand rested against his chest, rubbing over the spot where his heart beat wildly.

"Mary," he rasped, reaching out and cupping the side of her face. He drew her to him, his eyes falling to her parted lips. He tried to restrain himself, tried to keep his passions reined, but they overwhelmed him. His arms slid possessively around her waist, pulling her on top of him as his lips closed over hers. She opened to him readily, her tongue awaiting his as he claimed the fire of her mouth. His fingers dug through the layers of her cumbersome clothing, aching to touch her. He swallowed her soft moan as his hand stroked the side of her breast, the flesh hardening at his touch. Picking her up as he had done days before, he carried her to one of the spare guest rooms and placed her on the bed. Laying a finger across her lips, he turned to the door, locked it, and tossed the key onto the nightstand.

He stared down at the woman on the bed, seeing the invitation in her eyes. How he longed for that invitation, but the cost frightened him. He had given himself to Byron with reservations, which the Immortal had expertly discarded. What would Mary Shelley demand of him? He felt vulnerable, a rare emotion for him, and smiled shyly.

"If you wish to leave, you may do so. I only wish to keep others out," he whispered as he stretched out beside her. "Though I wish you to stay." He reached to touch her face and noticed the fine trembling in his fingers. The force of his emotions shocked him anew. "My dear Mary. I have wanted you..." his voice cracked.

"I know," she replied quietly. "I have wanted you as well." She caressed his face again, letting her fingers drift lightly down his neck. Immediately, his head tilted back, arching into the touch. Her fingers gently explored his most vulnerable spot, and he heard the teasing in her voice as she whispered, 'Oh, do you like that?"

Methos nodded slowly, unable to get a breath to form words. Her light ministrations were like tiny fires along his skin, and each touch reminded him of his Immortality.

Her lips curled up in a smile as she delicately traced the wildly beating pulse at the side of his neck. "I will have to remember that," she murmured. She cupped her hand behind his neck and pulled closer, her mouth open and inviting. He slipped his tongue inside her parted lips, drowning in her scent; her taste. He teased her a bit, then brushed his lips down her cheek to nip at her earlobe.

He felt himself drowning in her scent; her taste. The feelings from a few nights ago flooded him again; the feel of her breast in his palm, Byron urging him on, the rush to take her...take her, Byron's voice taunted him...he pushed back, gasping, "Please."

With a soft moan, she drew him back down to her. He felt her feather-light kisses along his neck, and his mouth flew open in a gasp. Her tongue flicked over his ear. "Please, what? Stop?"

A shiver went down his spine at her whispered words. She was using every means at her disposal to knock down his defenses, and he was powerless to stop her. If she continued, he would lose what little control he had left. Yet, her whispers continued in his ear, "I do not want you to stop. I desire you, Benjamin. Make love to me."

He closed his eyes briefly, letting Mary's words wash over him. They echoed in his soul, filling those places he dared to admit were empty. He leaned down and offered her a soft, sweet kiss, which deepened as his desire for her intensified. With shaking hand, he reached up and released her hair, fanning it out on the pillow with care. He planted gentle kisses on her forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks; as much a worship as a thank-you. "Why me? What makes me special?" he asked of her quietly.

She smiled dreamily at him. "Your eyes; they call to something inside me. You do not taunt me as Byron does, nor do you treat me as a misbehaving child. You treat me as an equal."

She looked upon him with such trust that he felt his heart weeping. He cupped her face in his hands, leaning in and kissing her softly. She returned his kiss, opening herself to him as his tongue darted at her lips, begging entrance. As he slid into the warmth of her mouth, his hands slid down her dress, his fingers brushing over the top of her breasts.

He felt giddy, lightheaded, like he could take on the world if he had to...but he had no desire to. All he wanted was to take this woman, but he sensed she had already taken him. She was as responsive as he had dared to hope, as soft and inviting as he had wished. She was bold where he thought she would be timid; child-like in her innocence where he thought she would be knowledgeable. He laughed lightly against her neck. "You are a delight," he whispered in her ear before he nipped the lobe.

"Is that all I am?" she whispered back as her hands worked at his neck fastenings, opening his shirt to her wandering fingers. Her hands explored the smooth skin of his chest, dancing over his stomach to rest lightly at his waist.

"No, you are far more than that," he managed to gasp out. His breathing was erratic as she arched under his touch, pushing her breasts into his hands. He sighed, leaning down to plant a soft kiss at each mound. Her hands covered his, guiding them to her mouth, where she kissed each palm in turn, sending trails of fire up his arms.

The gentleness faded quickly to frenzied need, as layers of clothing were removed with urgency. He took a moment to look down at her; her pale body gleaming in the firelight, his own just as pale, both taking on a golden hue. His breath caught and he leaned down, giving her a deeply passionate kiss before lying at her side. She immediately fell to his arms, her mouth planting kisses along his neck, along the pulsebeat. He shuddered and his heartrate increased threefold. She moved downward, along his collarbone, along his breastbone, touching him anywhere she could. His sex ached with need; need to be inside her, to take her, to make her his own . . . his fingers encircled her breasts, teasing at her nipples until they blossomed under his touch and she lay trembling in his arms.

"I fear I have wanted this...wanted you, for too long," he murmured into her hair, inhaling her scent deeply. His left hand drifted low on her abdomen, toying with the edge of her curls. One finger teased downward, dipping into her juices.

"Then wait no longer, Benjamin Adams," she pleaded softly, sliding her leg along his, opening herself to him.

With a soft moan, he turned and entered her, thrusting gently until he slid all the way inside her heat. So tight; he groaned, feeling her surrounding him, drawing him close to the edge. He raised himself on his forearms, staring down at her, wide-eyed. Her face was beauteous; her mouth slightly open, her gaze unfocused; the ultimate picture of lust. Of need. Of desire. He groaned again, thrusting once, slowly, watching her face.

Her gaze snapped to his, possessiveness shining from her eyes. "I want you," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea; a lover's command. Her legs wrapped around his, her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her. They traded teasing kisses, her breath hot along a cheek, his teeth tugging gently at her earlobe. He began to thrust lazily, learning her body's secrets as she learned his. She pulled his head down to hers, running her tongue along his jaw, kissing behind his ear, then nipped sharply.

His control snapped. With a low growl, his hips began to move in earnest, a driving rhythm older than Methos himself. His head fell to her breast and he suckled at one, then the other, branding them with his tongue. Mary cried out softly, holding his head to her breast, her hands wrapped in his hair. Her grip tightened painfully on his hair, and he could feel she was close to climax. He varied his rhythm, shifting slightly until she cried out, arching under him, her muscles milking him and sending him over the edge, his deep groan the perfect complement to her higher pitched cry.

His head lay beside hers, buried in the pillow. Her hands were smoothing back his hair; running down his back; stroking the strong muscles. A soothing, comforting touch.

"Quite a show, I dare say. Can anyone join in?"

His head snapped up at Byron's voice. He had not felt the Buzz at all. He turned to glare at Byron, who was lounging against the doorframe, grinning smugly at the couple, a key dangling from one hand. Methos felt a blush color his entire body, painfully aware of the vulnerable state he was in. He remained where he was, trying to hide Mary's nakedness from Byron's gaze ...but Byron was staring hungrily at his own body. Methos' mouth went dry, and his mind quickly debated what he should do. Try to talk Byron out of the room, try to get to his clothes, or just be still and hope Byron got bored and left. The last suggestion was immediately rejected; Byron would never be bored with this scenario. The lustful poet had been trying to get Methos to it for weeks. With limited choices, he decided talking would tire Byron quickly enough, and he would -- hopefully -- leave the couple alone.

"I think we're rather fine here," Methos remarked casually, inflecting as much boredom as he could into his voice.

"Really?" Byron's gaze slid down his body, a predatory look in his eyes. "I'd say you could use another body. What say you, Mary Shelley? May I join you?"

The seduction was high in the room; Methos could sense it. He could feel it calling to him as well, but he didn't think his body was up for it - even with his Immortal constitution. It was very hard to say no to Byron...but he was willing to try. "Byron, I-"

"Yes," Mary's voice rang out clearly.

Methos turned his gaze to the woman beneath him. "Are you sure?" he questioned warily.

She stroked a warm hand down his arm and smiled up at him coyly. "I am," she whispered. Mary's twinkling eyes then slid to Byron, meeting his gaze steadily. "But first, a question. Is it your intent to possess me as well, Lord Byron? I have seen how you look upon our dear Benjamin," she added with a grin.

Methos blanched, staring at Mary in horror. "What?" he rasped. He dared to look at Byron, who was staring at him...Methos shivered. His gaze returned to Mary's. "Surely he does not mean...you do not mean... _possess_ me..." he hissed.

Mary's light laughter mixed with Byron's more cynical tone. "Oh, Benjamin. Surely you must have known? Have seen it on Lord Byron's face whenever he looks upon you? It is hard to miss," she added slyly.

He just stared at Mary in shock, unable to utter a sound. Was that was Byron wanted all along? Was it not love, but possession he sought? A thrill raced down his spine at the thought. He had been possessed in the past, more times than he could remember. Experiences both good and bad, but with Byron, it threatened to be all-consuming. Could he give up his precious control? Or had he already lost control, and this was just the latest effect of it?

Byron's voice drifted to Methos as if from a great distance. "I see you have made our friend speechless. Truly, a rare event, my lady. And Doc, it seems our fair Mary is not the innocent she claims."

Methos came out of his contemplation at that. Locking gazes with Byron, he snarled, "Do not mock her, sir, or I shall..."

"Shall what?" Byron asked, moving to stand beside the bed. His hand burned fire down Methos' back, from the nape of his neck down to his thighs.

He forgot to breathe as Byron followed the trail he had just blazed with his mouth, kissing every inch of his spine until he reached his buttocks. By that point, Methos was shaking, unable to think. He felt himself grow hard inside Mary again, and pulled out slowly as not to hurt her. It seemed his Immortal constitution was working after all, though his eyes were heavy with sleep. He'd had very little these past few nights as he and Byron had explored each other's bodies. But once again, he found he was unable to deny the poet anything.

He shifted until he could sit up, finding and locking his gaze to Byron's. He nodded once, a barely perceptible movement, indicating he was ready.

Byron nodded in answer and Methos watched in rapture as the young Immortal removed his clothing. He inhaled sharply as the pale body, lean yet firm, was revealed to his gaze. No matter how many times his eyes feasted on Byron's form, his body still ached with the need to touch him. Reaching up, he lightly touched the poet's face, tracing his cheekbone down his jaw, running along his lower lip. Byron's tongue flicked out, wetting his fingers. He hissed as the fire of Byron's mouth blazed down his fingertips.

Eyes open, he raised his head and kissed Byron, softly at first, then harder as he quickly fell under the poet's seductive spell. As Byron opened his mouth and guided his tongue inside, Methos had to close his eyes. The physical stimulation was too much; seeing the passion on Byron's face was torture. Moaning, he felt himself being pushed back to the bed, felt his body covered with another, and arched under the touch. Byron's hungry mouth devoured his, stealing his breath away as the nimble tongue delved deeper. Hands held his head steady as the mouth worked its magic. Hands held his head steady as the mouth worked its magic. Another set of hands on his body caused him to start, and his eyes flew open. Mary had moved beside them and was reaching between them, stroking their chests.

She met Methos' eyes and smiled wickedly, then leaned into where their mouths were joined.

"Mrs. Shelley," Byron whispered. "Forgive us. We did not mean to leave you out of tonight's festivities." Byron pulled her close, and Methos watched in fascination as his two lovers kissed. His eyes drifted closed, sharpening his sense of hearing. He listened to the sounds of Byron and Mary making love and his body responded. His hand moved to his sex, stroking slowly as he imagined what each of his lovers looked like. Pale skin gleaming with sweat; neck arched in abandon. Lips parted, tongue eagerly searching.

He felt the bed dip and opened his eyes. He took in the scene before him, and could scarcely catch his breath. Byron's back was now to him, one of Mary's calves looped over Byron's legs. Byron was inside Mary, beginning to move rhythmically. His hips jerked as Byron thrust deep into Mary, unconsciously mimicking the poet.

Mary's soft sounds drew his attention, and he rolled to spoon himself behind Byron. His sex nestled in Byron's cleft, and both men shuddered at the contact. The fingers of his left hand brushed up Mary's leg and cupped her strong thigh. He stretched to reach her buttocks and squeezed them, holding her still as Byron thrust hard into her. Both his lover's gasped, and he could  
No longer be mere spectator in this sport. He was about to find out what the heart and mind of these two mortals could do to him. The mild fear that he would be swallowed by them was still there, but his own arousal was too great for him to notice. He was utterly focused on the two of them, and what pleasure he could give each. Bringing his hand back, he roamed up Byron's chest, his nails scratching slightly, then he turned his palm, touching Mary, squeezing her breasts gently.

Byron thrust hard into Mary, then tearing his mouth from hers, hissed, "Do it, Doc."

He did not have to be told twice. He rested his hand against Mary's cheek, tracing along her lower lip. She pulled his fingers into her mouth and sucked them greedily, the sensation cutting straight to Methos' aching sex. He shifted back from Byron and quickly drove his wet fingers into the poet's cleft, preparing him.

Byron thrust back against his fingers and demanded, "What are you waiting for?"

His hands parted Byron's cheeks and he pushed his sex inside, feeling an even tighter force against him than he had with Mary. Byron squeezed at him, then stilled; he could feel the poet's shuddered breathing. He stroked once, twice, finally finding the gland he had been searching for. Byron's entire body shivered, and he held onto his lover as he thrust again. "For that," he panted, resting his head against Byron's back.

Byron laughed breathlessly. "I dare say, you are good at this." The young Immortal began to move again, establishing a rhythm both he and Mary could follow. Byron once again captured Mary's mouth, though he immediately moved to her breast, seemingly preferring its taste to her mouth's sweet wine. She threw her head back and laughed, her laughter dying into a sob of pleasure as he shifted his position, driving Byron more deeply into her. He undulated very carefully against Byron, bringing himself closer to each of his lovers. He reached around and touched Mary's arm; her eyes opened and she looked in his general direction. Raising herself slightly, they stretched until he could touch her lips with his own. The kiss did not last long. Byron drew Mary's attention, taking small bites out of her neck until her head fell back and he could capture her lips in another kiss.

It was all he could do not to drive himself wildly inside Byron, but fear of hurting Mary kept him in control. Byron shifted between them, alternately pushing and pulling at his sex, and Methos felt himself falling to the edge. Too quickly. Too soon. But just as he thought that, he heard Mary's sigh of release, and felt Byron speed up. Taking his cue, he wrapped his arms around Byron and rocked hard, drawing them both over into rapture. Byron came first with a grunt, thrusting deeply into Mary who climaxed again; that was Methos' undoing. He bit down on Byron's shoulder as he came with a force he hadn't felt in ages.

He hurt. That was what Methos realized first. Shifting and opening his eyes, he saw that they had all gotten tangled up. Byron was half on top of him, the younger Immortal's elbow digging into his ribcage. Mary was relatively free of the two men, and she sat giggling.

"You two are a sight," she commented, blushing rosily.

Methos took in his and Byron's position, and chuckled. Byron's great laugh echoed through the room, and they all joined in, sharing their joy.

~~~~~

Byron. Mary. Percy. They had all burned with great passion, and now that passion was gone. For Mary and Percy, it had been expected; they were mortal. But Byron...sudden rage flared through him. "I hope you got MacLeod, at least a little," Methos whispered to his empty apartment. "I hope you didn't make it easy on him."

He wasn't really surprised at the level of anger he felt; MacLeod had killed some rather important people in his life lately. Granted, the Horsemen weren't exactly model citizens, but they had been part of his life for more than two thousand years. That in itself was enough to make him angry. But what MacLeod didn't know, or chose not to see, was that he had killed two of Methos' lovers. First Kronos, now Byron. Was he that blind? Did he really not see?

"I suppose not," Methos admitted to himself, dropping his head to the back of the couch. The anger wasn't dissipating as it usually did; in fact, he felt more angry by the minute. Angry at Byron and MacLeod, for not listening to his pleas. At himself, for not doing more, not saying the right words, for not stopping Byron's death. And he hated his feeling of helplessness -- oh, how he hated it. His fist curled and punched the couch, though did little to ease the intense rage building inside of him. Self-hatred had never been his strong suit; no, his hatred was reserved for those around him. For those who were still alive after everyone had fallen. For the first time in a very long time, he felt the need for...revenge. He rose to his feet, quickly dressing in something more appropriate. MacLeod would be out on his morning run, if he kept to schedule, and should be arriving back at the barge in about half an hour. That gave him just enough time to get there. Checking that he had his sword, he headed downstairs to his car.

~~~~~

Methos observed through narrowed eyes as Duncan MacLeod jogged leisurely along the Seine, heading back to the barge. He had chosen his hiding place well; just up the stairs, but far enough away not to be sensed. His anger had not faded as he waited for MacLeod to return. On the contrary, it had grown with the passing minutes. Now, with each step the Highlander took, Methos recited to himself, *Byron wasn't responsible for Mike's death. Kronos had no quarrel with MacLeod. MacLeod judged Byron. Who judges MacLeod?* He felt the bloodlust coursing through his veins, and his breath came in short, harsh gasps. *I judge MacLeod.* He shifted his position and allowed himself within sensing range.

Methos' eyes dilated as MacLeod slowed and looked around warily, trying to pinpoint the location of the Buzz.

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

 _Oh, if only you knew, Highlander. But you don't, and that will be my advantage. You_ don't _know me_. He chuckled darkly as he fingered MacLeod's highly polished katana. So much for the Boyscout and his motto. The foolish man had gone jogging without it. His eyes followed MacLeod as he turned slowly, searching the surrounding area. Waiting a good minute, he decided MacLeod had worried enough...or at least sufficiently, for his intentions.

"Looking for me?" he called as he stepped out of the shadows. As MacLeod spun around, he caught the startled look on the Scotsman's face fade quickly to relief.

"Methos." MacLeod's relief was transferred to that two-syllabled word.

Methos was looking forward to shattering that relief. He felt the weight of the two blades in his hands and gripped them tighter in anticipation. "Highlander," he replied curtly.

"What brings you here?" MacLeod asked, his innocent question disgusting Methos. The man hadn't a clue why he'd come. Well, that would change soon enough.

He kept his expression impassive, deciding then and there that he was going to teach MacLeod a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. Bringing his arms from behind his back, he produced the katana and his own broadsword. Enjoying the flash of confusion on MacLeod's face, he tossed the katana to its owner, who caught it deftly. "Something I should have done long ago." He let all his anger and pain surface, hardening his heart as he raised his sword to a defensive position. "It's time."

Duncan stared first at him, then at the katana, his face wreathed in confusion. "What are you doing?"

He snorted indelicately. MacLeod was  _that_ incapable of believing what his own eyes were telling him. How had he survived this long? "Ever hear of a challenge, MacLeod?  _This_ is a challenge. Raise your weapon." He settled his weight more firmly on the damp bricks, waiting for MacLeod to strike.

Duncan kept his katana at his side, unthreatening. "What are you talking about? Put that down and come inside. We'll talk," he offered.

A  _peace offering_? Was MacLeod serious? He let his guard slip a bit, and MacLeod took a step closer. Methos immediately went back on the defensive. "There are no more words, MacLeod. You killed them yesterday. And now it's my turn."

"Methos, you're not making sense. Killed what ..." MacLeod's voice trailed off, and Methos saw understanding dawning on the younger Immortals' face. It was about time. "Methos," Duncan began in a quiet voice, "It was a fair challenge. He accepted. It's what we do."

His anger boiled over until it was a consuming fire in his blood. How  _dare_ he! MacLeod could get justice, but  _he_ couldn't? What about  _his_ right to vengeance? What about  _his_ right to a fair fight? No, MacLeod learned his lesson here and now. Methos would not lose any more past lovers or friends to this Immortal. Allowing his anger to filter through his voice, he snarled, "No.  _You_ judge," he accused as he took another swing at MacLeod. The younger Immortal took another step back. "Do you remember what you asked me after you took Ingrid's head? You asked who judges you." Without warning, he attacked in a flurry of blows that sent MacLeod on the defensive. He let himself flow with the bloodlust, let it sing through his veins and guide his arm. He swung at MacLeod's head, and narrowly missed taking a chunk out of the Scot's ear.

"Hold still like a good boy," he hissed as he shifted his balance and swung upwards, driving MacLeod back towards the bank. The fury in his soul cried out as he thrust and parried again and again, his blade drawing blood a few times. MacLeod started to fight back in earnest as he pressed his advantage.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you to respect your elders?" he chided as he felt the whoosh of air beside his face. The katana had missed him by inches. He laughed, a maniacal, dark sound that even Caspian would have feared. "You'll have to try harder than that." He blocked a quick jab to his shoulder, then another to his hip. He returned the blows expertly, but suddenly his sword was tangled with the katana, neither able to move. He struggled, but a strong pair of hands was holding the hilts together.

"Go on, take my head," he snarled suddenly, the blinding rage consuming him.

"What?" MacLeod's startled voice cut through Methos, shaking his control. "Methos, stop this. I will not take your head."

"Why not?" he ground out from between clenched teeth. "What makes me different, MacLeod?" he taunted.

Duncan stammered for a minute. "You're...they - I didn't know them. You...I won't," he repeated, his voice hard.

Methos' eyes narrowed dangerously as he took in MacLeod's expression. MacLeod didn't care about him. It had taken until this moment to truly see that. Well, he'd had enough of MacLeod's one-sided friendship. He breathed deeply as he closed his eyes, allowing his pent-up feelings to surface, some dead these past two thousand years. As he opened them, MacLeod took a step back, and Methos smiled archily. He knew exactly what he looked like to the Highlander; eyes dark with anger, face completely emotionless, the Horseman coming back to life - briefly. "Oh? Does that mean the people you  _do_ know are privileged? Do we have something unique? Have we done something special that grants us peace from being hunted by DUNCAN MACLEOD?" Methos' voice rose in volume until he screamed the Highlander's name, a fine tremor shaking his normally mellow tones.

He was breathing hard, barely able to see who was in front of him through the haze of rage. It had returned with a force that rocked him to his core, and now it was a siren's song in his head. His grip tightened on his sword, so hard he felt every indentation.

"I do not hunt," an indignant voice declared. He focused on that voice...MacLeod. He was facing MacLeod. Some of the rage faded, enough to let Methos get control of himself again.

"And I don't treat my friends special." MacLeod's voice shifted, dropping to a soft plea. "Methos..."

He centered in on MacLeod's voice, and the pain that accompanied his plea.  _He_ was hurt? MacLeod hadn't lost a friend.  _He_ hadn't lost two old lovers in the space of months. The rage again threatened to overtake him, but Methos held it in check - barely. His own voice dropped to a deadly cadence as he challenged, "What did Byron do to you, MacLeod? Why couldn't you let him be? Why did you have to take him from me..." His voice cracked finally, the loss of his lover tightening his chest, and his broadsword fell to his side.

His emotional state had been shaky when he devised this plan, and now his emotions were out of control with no ending in sight. The pain, loss, anger, hurt, fear, rage and love all fought for dominance inside of him, with neither winning for very long. His head dropped to his chest as he heaved a great sob, fighting his emotions. Slowly gathering himself, Methos again raised his sword, steadier now. "Fight me," he rasped.

MacLeod threw his katana to the ground. "I will not."

"Fight me," Methos commanded again though his voice shook. His control was cracking and he couldn't hold out much longer. It had been too long since he had felt tempted to kill, and MacLeod was pushing all his limits.

"No," MacLeod insisted. He took a step back as MacLeod advanced forward. "Methos, we can talk about it..."

"Why?" Methos spat, interrupting MacLeod. "So you can tell me how right you were, and how wrong they were? Well, I'm tired of it, MacLeod. Talking won't bring Byron back." The anger faded quickly, and Methos found himself again fighting tears. Gods, he was an emotional mess. Maybe this wasn't worth it. Maybe he should just leave it alone. Then he heard Byron's voice, the last time he saw him.  _I hear the sound of my own voice, screaming my failure_. That gave him the strength to see this through. One hand dropped off his sword; waving in emphasis to his words. "But Byron might have been saved, if you had given him a chance. He was only one hundred and fifty, MacLeod. Barely out of childhood. He could have done so much; given so much back. Why?" He widened his eyes, giving the Highlander a completely mystified look. "Just answer me that: why."

Duncan blinked, staring at the older Immortal blankly. Finally, he blurted out, "I- I can't. If it wasn't for Byron, Mike-"

Methos took a step towards MacLeod, letting his anger flow through his posture and his gaze. Inside, the desire to run MacLeod through wrestled with the desire to make him understand. So much he had trusted with this man. He let himself start to care for him, risked his life for him - hell, he had told MacLeod  _who he was_. Didn't he realize just how sacred that information was? How very few people were deemed worthy enough to know his secret?

The tip of his sword steadily rested two inches from MacLeod's chest. "Do not bring him into this. He was one mortal who was hardly faultless in this. He was as much to blame for his own death as Byron. Hell, I've killed more mortals than that and I'm still alive by the grace of MacLeod. Why wasn't Byron given the same privilege? Why wasn't he given a chance?" The blade moved closer until it was touching MacLeod's chest. "Answer me," Methos demanded in a clear, low voice. A voice that commanded an answer.

Again, MacLeod seemed to be thinking it over. Staring down at the sword at his chest, MacLeod mumbled, "Byron wasn't you."

Methos tried very hard not to start at MacLeod's words. The very same words he had told himself only yesterday. They shook his control, and he forced himself to continue. His eyes narrowed as he steeled himself. "Brilliant. Byron, you're not. Care to try again?"

MacLeod's voice was again filled with confusion as he tried to explain, "I don't know what this is really about, Methos. We've all lost friends to the Game. I challenged; he accepted." MacLeod backed up as the tip of the blade went through his shirt front. "Byron..."

"Was my lover." Those three words were colder than ice and harder than steel.

He watched the emotions flicker across Duncan's face. Surprise. Fear. Understanding. Disgust. "No..." MacLeod shook his head, backing away. "No," he whispered.

He stared in stunned amazement at the younger Immortal. He had to have known. He took Byron's Quickening. The emotions would have been there as the Quickening assaulted MacLeod's body, washing over him in a flood of memories. The broadsword fell to Methos' side, forgotten for the moment. "You really didn't know," he remarked softly. Sudden understanding flared in his eyes. "Or are you just blind?" His voice was laden with disgust as he spat, "Maybe I should make a list of everyone I know and state whether I was intimate with them or not. Would that help you in deciding which of my friends to kill? Would that have saved Byron?" he asked plaintively.

MacLeod just stared blankly at him for several minutes, not saying a word. "I don't want to kill your friends," he finally stated quietly. "I don't need a list. I don't..."

Methos raised his eyes skyward, the futility of his actions finally sinking in. MacLeod would never understand. He would never get it. He had been right before; it wasn't in MacLeod's nature. The anger was back, but not as strong this time. Now, the anger was tempered with frustration. "If you don't want a list, then what will it take? I pleaded with you for his life. Do you have any idea what that means? Do you know how much it hurt that you ignored me? I'm five thousand years old, damnit, and I deserve more than a brush-off!" He shoved MacLeod back, out of his personal space.

MacLeod took a deep breath, then said quietly, "I didn't know...how much he meant to you. I couldn't listen to you... because I felt...I took Byron's head because of you," he finally spat out.

He stared at MacLeod for a long minute, speechless. For  _me_. He killed my lover  _for me_. When he found his voice, it was laden with sarcasm. "Really? Why, thank you! I've always wanted my former lovers killed by my so-called friends."

"Methos, please!" Duncan snapped. "Let me explain."

Again with the puppy-eyed look. Methos sighed. "Fine," he replied almost too calmly. He settled his sword on his shoulders, shoving one hand into his jeans pocket. He couldn't wait to hear how the Scot rationalized that one. He killed Byron for _him_.

Duncan's eyes darted at the surrounding area. He licked his lips, avoiding Methos' eyes. He watched the Highlander for a full minute, deciding if he didn't say something, they might be there all day. "You're not posing for the cover, MacLeod," Methos reminded him.

He watched the anger blossom in MacLeod's eyes as he found his voice. "I saw how he looked at you in the club. And how he looked at me. He was jealous of me, Methos. I didn't know why at first."

"You didn't know why until five minutes ago, you mean." He injected as much boredom into that sentence as he could, letting MacLeod know he was getting tired of this conversation. He felt bone-tired all of a sudden, and wanted nothing more than to curl up for a decade or two with a few good books.

"No," MacLeod admitted. "It confused me. I thought he wanted to spend time with you; catch up on old times. But he never mentioned it and neither did you. And then...and then, he said, 'any friend of Doc's,' and I froze. I didn't know what to make of it. He wasn't talking about friendship; I knew that."

Methos gazed heavenward. "Score one for MacLeod..."

Duncan stepped forward, poking a finger at his chest. "Methos, stop it! You wanted an explanation and I'm trying to give you one."

He stifled another sigh. "All right. But you make it so easy."

MacLeod glared at him, then continued. "The way he looked at me, then at you...that look worried me, Methos. It was possession."

He breathed deeply, letting a few choice memories surface. The feel of Byron's body covering his, the weight of his gaze, the sensuality of his words. When he felt he could speak, it was with a soft remembrance. "Yes, it was, MacLeod. Byron lived fully and loved fully. Completely. Possession is a good and probably accurate word to use with him. And you're right; he probably did see you and feel jealous. After all, he was there first," he mused.

"Where?"

Too late, Methos realized his slip. MacLeod was definitely not ready for that train of thought. "Never mind. Just know this: you probably did pick up some jealousy from him. I might have missed it; I was caught up in the memories and wasn't worried about what he may have read between us."

"There is no 'us'," MacLeod blurted out, seeming shocked by his own words.

Regardless, Methos' look could have beheaded MacLeod from where he stood. Why was he here again? To try to salvage a friendship with this man? What was the point, if MacLeod didn't even see it as worth saving? The utter stupidity of it hit him full force, and he chuckled humorlessly. "No, I guess there isn't. So, that is why you killed him? Jealousy over his jealousy? How mature."

"No!" MacLeod yelled. Lowering his voice, he continued, "That wasn't all. The possession I sensed from him...it was powerful and absolute. I sensed the same thing from Kronos. I was...I wanted to protect you."

Methos groaned, rubbing at his temple. Damn the Highlander's clan instincts! "Again with the protection? Haven't you figured it out yet, MacLeod?  _I don't need protection_. I can take care of myself. You have seen me do it. Or don't you think Silas was as strong as he looked?"

Duncan visibly winced. "What's wrong with wanting to protect you?" he exasperated.

His stance shifted and he glared at MacLeod, letting the weight of his age settle onto the Highlander. "I am twelve times older than you, MacLeod. I took care of myself for four thousand years before I met you. I am fully capable of protecting myself now. So why not let me do it from now on, okay?" He raised his sword and started to tuck it away when MacLeod's voice stopped him.

"What about Kalas?"

He adjusted his sword, settling it comfortably in his trenchcoat before answering, "What about him?"

Duncan's voice was hesitant again; unsure. "You needed protection from him..."

Methos turned, shaking his head. "It was not about protection, MacLeod." Seeing the Scotman's confused expression, he silently groaned. Why couldn't he see? Why was it so hard for MacLeod to understand? His voice was low with frustration, and he ran his hand through his hair as he answered his own question. "You really are that blind. If you couldn't see I was testing you, gauging to see if you were the same man I had read about...then you are more of a child than Richie." He smiled at MacLeod's flabbergasted expression. "Yes MacLeod. It was a test. Surprised that you passed?" His expression changed yet again, the unemotional mask slipping back into place. "I'm beginning to think this was all a mistake though. It's not worth losing friends over; friends I cannot get back. I can not, and will not, continue to stand aside and let you kill my friends, Duncan MacLeod." The sword was back out and resting against MacLeod's neck before Duncan could blink. "Remember that."

The sword was removed just as quickly, and Methos turned and started to walk away.

"Wait!" MacLeod called.

The world's oldest Immortal halted, but did not turn back around. "What now?" he sighed impatiently. Hadn't they settled everything?

"What does this mean about...us? You're not going to disappear, are you?" Duncan added quietly, a tremor of fear tinting his words.

Maybe everything had not been settled. There was still the matter of MacLeod taking him for granted. That, too, would change. He rolled his head to the right, a casual move that could be taken many different ways. "I don't know. I might; Paris is a dangerous place for me." He paused, his voice lowering as he asked carefully, "And what 'us'?"

A pregnant pause, then MacLeod answered low, "Our friendship. I've...come to value it, Methos."

His voice was raspy as he answered, "Highlander, I attach myself to Immortals who are no good for me. Kronos and Byron were just two of many. And so are you."

MacLeod's voice had a wounded note to it as he replied, "I'm no good?"

"You're not hearing what I'm saying. No good for me. I've changed, and I don't like what's happened. I was out of the Game a long time until you found me. Now, I've lost my safe haven. The Watchers know I'm Immortal, though I pray no one left knows who I was. I've gone against my own kind to save you; killed a blood brother to help you, took a head to save you down the road...it's too risky for me, MacLeod. I've put my neck on the line too many times for you, and for what? What have I gotten in return? Dead friends and lovers."

"My friendship."

He turned around at Duncan's softly uttered statement. "Do I? Do I still have that? I've passed the Duncan MacLeod Good Side of the Force Test?" He stepped closer to MacLeod, invading his space. "Am I your friend?"

"Yes," MacLeod answered without hesitation.

The word wasn't enough. Even though the Highlander rarely said something he didn't mean, Methos wanted him to understand  _completely_ what it was he was asking. He studied MacLeod's face, gauging his reaction. "You've accepted what I've done. You've accepted that I was one of the Horsemen. That I enjoyed killing." They were all statements, spoken carefully.

MacLeod closed his eyes and let out a breath. Methos had barely blinked when Duncan's eyes finally opened and locked on his. "Yes. I have accepted what you were. And I accept what - who, you are today."

"That's nice to know." He sheathed his sword and started to walk away. "I'll see you around then." He had done enough talking for one day. Now, he needed time to grieve properly and say his good-byes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'These might the boldest Sylph appall,  
\----When gleaming with meridian blaze;  
Thy beauty must enrapture all;  
\----But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

'Tis said that Berenice's hair,  
\----In stars adorns the vault of heaven;  
But they would ne'er permit thee there,  
\----Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,  
\----Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:  
E'en suns, which systems now control,  
\----Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.'

 

Methos closed his book and held it against his chest. He nodded to the gravesmen, who started to fill in the grave with dirt.  
"Thank you," he whispered, then turned and walked out of the little cemetery. In a few weeks, a tombstone would be erected above the now unmarked grave, though it would not have the proper name etched onto it. He had commissioned it to read:

 

> B____  
>  He loved and lived too much;  
>  for that we cannot fault him.

He had made up some dates; it didn't matter. Who was really in that grave, the exact location, and the proper dates would be recorded in his own journal. Hopefully, when his turn came, the Watchers would still be around, and would understand what he had been trying to do.

Their job finished, the two men nodded to him and left him standing alone at the foot of the grave, book clasped in front of him like a shield. "Good-bye, dear friend. I hope you have found some of the peace you could not in life."

He closed his eyes against the harsh wind that threatened to blow him over. He had spent enough time grieving for his lover, student and friend. It was time to remember his life. Tucking the book carefully into his pocket, he turned and started walking out of the little cemetery. Byron's passionate words would live on in books, and in Methos' heart.

The End

\-------------------------------------  
I found this online; I haven't been able to check if it's the entire poem or if it's accurate, but I like it as is.

To M_________  
by Lord Byron

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,  
\----With bright, but mild affection shine:  
Though they might kindle less desire,  
\----Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,  
\----Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,  
We must admire, but still despair;  
\----That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,  
\----So much perfection in thee shone,  
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,  
\----The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work,  
\----Lest angels might dispute the prize,  
She bade a secret lightning lurk,  
\----Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest Sylph appall,  
\----When gleaming with meridian blaze;  
Thy beauty must enrapture all;  
\----But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

'Tis said that Berenice's hair,  
\----In stars adorns the vault of heaven;  
But they would ne'er permit thee there,  
\----Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,  
\----Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:  
E'en suns, which systems now control,  
\----Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.


End file.
